It was day one at my new site, the Kitabi College of
Conservation and Environmental Management. I woke up to silence, light and a
feeling of change. Outside my house are rolling hills of forest and tea. Here
in Kitabi we are up high where it is cold and the clouds are constantly
changing their mind. I spent time
with new colleagues then organized my new room and walked the campus but by
afternoon, I had a familiar, unpleasant feeling. It was a feeling of disappointment
and emptiness, inevitable after any big expectation is checked by reality. What
am I doing here? Will it be too much? Too little? How do I take care of myself
while helping Rwanda? Is this site too different from my last one? These are
common questions I ask myself but today I decided they were intolerable and
restrictive.
I was not in the mood to hole up in my house so I ventured
outside and off campus for a little walk. To my left was a heavy storm cloud and to my right was forest
where just this morning I had seen a baboon. I continued straight and decided
to buy some airtime for my phone. This led me from boutique to boutique, with
lots of confused-looking Rwandans wondering who this Kinyarwanda-speaking
foreigner was. I made it to one house that promised to have airtime when the
kids started shouting to get the camera because the white person was there. “Appareil
appareil!” they shouted.
As I got to the house and paid, it started pouring. This
Rwandan woman, Mama Yvette, ushered me into her house where I sat with eight
other children. The children passed around a broken Polaroid and “took”
pictures of me all afternoon.
The rain kept me for a while, enough time to make some
friends, eat some bananas, see the bath of a two month old and exchange some
English-Kinyarwanda lessons. It was chilly and damp and the electricity was
intermittent; still, there was a beautiful energy in the room. One girl was
knitting a scarf using to sticks as needles. Two of the boys turned out to be
some of the most talented dancers I have ever seen… although their song “ipusi
ipusi” (cat cat) was not so great. One of the boys, Zidane, was smitten. He had
dirty clothes, gap teeth and a shy spirit like mine. He started a chorus of “will
she stay the night? Will she stay the night?” that continued until the rain
slowed and I left. His pleas, “ararara, ararara?” turned in to a song and I was
sorry to disappoint.
I was accompanied home and have carried a smile ever since.
For me, this experience exemplifies Peace Corps. Just walking out of your house
and using your language and cultural skills to spend the afternoon with a
village family is unique to Peace Corps. I couldn’t have done this before Peace
Corps and for this skill, I am grateful.
Sorghum replaced the corn and now beans have taken the place
of the sorghum. From my yellow house in the valley, I’ve watched the fields
shift from purple, to red to lime green. In the middle of this rainy, bean
season, I find myself saying an emotional goodbye to the North and preparing
for next year’s adventure in southern Rwanda.
I had my final market day yesterday, which I took in slowly
as I meandered the aisles and greeted everyone. We laughed, touched and chatted
and I promised to return to visit. I commissioned my last project at the tailor
while her child screamed and covered his eyes at the sight of me. I took photos
of my kids and exchanged numbers with everyone (because everyone in Rwanda has
a cell phone!).
I have loved my final moto rides, which cleared my head and
fed my heart. The scenery in the North is so breathtaking. I will miss the
hustle and bustle of Base, the town where I catch motos and am offered rides on
bicycles, motorcycles and cars by smiling men that call me Umurerwa or
Kayitesi.
I have taken the chance to say goodbye to my favorite
villagers, like the shop keepers, Mama Shafik and her new baby, my dear old
Mama Devotha and of course, my bestie Christine. She is my lifeline, my number
one. We share walks, tea, meals, conversations, music and laughs. And recently
we shared bacon and French toast. I will miss these friends. I will also miss
my morning wake-up call from the mosque. And those children that drive me crazy…
I will miss their echoes of “Good morning Penina!” that reverberate across the
valley.
It has now been 13 months since I left for Peace Corps and
this means over 11 months at site. I recently left site for a while and coming
back helped me see just what those 11 months mean. Those months of exposure to
a Peace Corps Volunteer have left my village open, accepting and loving. Upon
my return, I was greeted with “where’ve you been?” and “we missed you!” and
“our muzungu!” Absent was the judgment and hurt I was expecting. Cultural
exchange is a huge goal of Peace Corps and it is happening… in fact it is
working! I have settled into a comfortable pattern of life in which I have
accepted many Rwandan traditions and norms but kept some of my own. My village
seems to have accepted this too.
Someone recently challenged me to find things that I love in
Rwanda. Can you tell by this blog post that there are many?
Just.
Final market day in my site
Some Peace Corps Volunteers acting like turkeys on Thanksgiving. Look at our feast!
*Rwandans often say "just" to mean yes. It drives us English teachers crazy.
But this blog is not about Justin Bieber. The runner up title was "1 in 200,000"
The Peace Corps starts a program in a country when the
country requests its presence. They decide which sectors they would like help
in: agro-forestry, small enterprise development, health, etc. Over 200,000
volunteers have served or are serving in the Peace Corps. We are currently in
around 70 countries. Rwanda asked the Peace Corps to return to Rwanda in 2008
and they’ve set the goal of having 250 volunteers teaching tens of thousands of
students by around 2014. When you put it in perspective, you can see what we
are actually accomplishing. Oh the ground, things seem to move a little slower.
Currently, PC Rwanda only has education and health sectors. I am an education
volunteer and as our school year comes to a close, I’d like to tell you more
about Peace Corps, my school, students and classes.
Last week I met with a Peace Corps staff who was doing site
development in my district. We had a motivating discussion about what it means
to be a Peace Corps volunteer and why PCVs are so exceptional. I’m eleven
months in and often lose site of my purpose and goals. The PCV is a teacher not
only in the classroom or at their job: the PCV is also a teacher in the
community. Just publicly washing my hands before I eat, other villagers can
say, “look! She is washing her hands. I think I will too!” They can observe us
in the market, making healthy food choices with the same options they have.
Also, as volunteers greet villagers on their daily walks, community members
learn that foreigners, or Americans in general, do not need to be treated
differently than others. They are not above anyone.
This is an important distinction to fight in Rwanda. The
Peace Corps staff member and I discussed the divisive social hierarchy that
exists in Rwanda. It is something I discovered only after I moved to my site.
In Rwanda, there are many social divisions. Many education volunteers see the
artificially imposed distinction between “villagers” and “the educated.” School
and government officials, raised and educated in larger towns, often move to
rural settings for work. For many of us, these are our colleagues. On the
weekends, they return to the larger towns like Kigali and Musanze. This creates
a harmful distinction that I am fighting. I have had colleagues tell me, “You
should never visit your neighbors” because they are bad, uneducated people.
Nonetheless, I continue to visit and greet my rural villagers and friends. When
people see me at the tailor, greeting a poor neighbor while talking with a
successful female colleague, they see the possibility of breaking these
barriers. In a culture where judgment and division are prevalent, it is
important to show friendship and acceptance.
The other part of my job is teaching in the classroom.
Rwanda offers 9 years of free, basic education. Twelve are available- if you
can pay or get a scholarship. I teach at a private, boarding school where
parents or guardians work very hard to pay school fees for students. Our school
fees are around $140/year. Students
come from all over the country to my school to specialize in math, sciences or
business. We have a staff of around 30 from Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi and America
(that would be me). We also have our own cows, which is a huge source of pride.
I teach 250 students in 10th grade economics, 10th
grade English and 11th grade English. Class sizes are large, around
50, so the bare classrooms are crowded. My resources are chalk, a chalkboard,
pens and a small library. I make do. I feel fortunate to have natural lighting,
desks and one chalkboard giant chalkboard, though I do not have my own
classroom. In the Rwandan system, students stay in one classroom while teachers
rotate. It has its advantages and disadvantages.
We are now halfway through our third and final term. This
many months in, it’s exciting to see the progress my students have made. The
first two terms, I focused on speaking and listening exercises in my English
classes. We’ve done activities like skits, telephone, Circle Talk, group work,
dictations and tongue twisters. Their achievements are remarkable but I know I
am not the one to thank. It is their hard work and motivation to learn English
as well as the effort all the other teachers have made to learn English and use
it in the classroom. We are now focusing on grammar and writing, which some
classes love. They are hungry for definitions, rules and new words.
My economics class is my favorite class and it is where I
have seen the most improvement in my teaching and my students’ performance. To
see so many boys and girls participating is very gratifying. Last term, I
noticed a marked improvement in their English and decided it was because I use
a content-based TEFL approach to teaching them. Through verbal review, lots of
exercises and having students read my notes on the board, their English has
gotten much better. I decided to apply this content-based methodology to my
English classes. As an example, we’re now studying Sustainable Development in
my 11th grade class and through this I will teach outlining and
composition writing.
My teaching style is more casual than my students are used
to but I believe it creates a very safe classroom environment where students
aren’t afraid to talk, make noise and make mistakes. My first week teaching
economics, one student said, “Teacher, this is not how you teach in Rwanda” to
which I replied, “I know.” And they’ve gotten used to it. If class finishes
early, I open it up for a Q&A session on English vocabulary. My favorite
questions? “What is the meaning of ‘I am so hood’” and “cantertable?” I am not
sure.
Rwanda runs on polychromic or “African” time and for many
volunteers, this means school starts minutes, hours, even days late. My school
is particularly serious and this isn’t as much of a problem. Still, our
students have many responsibilities including cleaning the classrooms and
fetching water so sometimes class is disrupted. One week, I kept walking into
classrooms of only boys because the girls were having mandatory pregnancy tests
at the clinic. Discipline is very serious at my school but not something I want
to discuss on my blog. Afternoons are difficult, either because of the heat or
the rain. Staff meetings are becoming regular. Our morning tea has enough sugar
to kill a diabetic. Our library has a dozen English dictionaries. We are one of
the few schools to hold our own genocide commemoration week. We have no hand
washing facilities (yet). We have a working computer lab. Our girls volleyball
team is one of the best in the country. All in all, things are pretty
impressive at my school. This past year has been quite a positive experience,
despite my own personal struggles.
The presence of my mother in Rwanda helped me realize how
incredibly awkward my daily interactions in Peace Corps Rwanda are. We used the
phrase “Peace Corps is the name, awkward is the game” often. Daily. I’ve
decided to share a few moments with you of ordinary interactions made awkward
by language and cultural differences.
The Greeting
In Rwanda, greeting someone is of extreme importance and
neglecting to formally greet someone is taken as an insult. The greeting
involves some form of “hello” but also a handshake. The handshake takes on many
forms: a handshake, a handshake where you touch your left hand to your right
elbow, grabbing the wrist instead of the hand, doing this half-hug, bringing
your head near their cheek three times and sometimes touching foreheads. The problem comes in using that half a
second to determine which physical greeting they are expecting and being able
to smoothly return it. My poor mother, I threw her into the village without
teaching her the greeting! Within a span of about 5 minutes, she greeted half a
dozen people without knowing what to do. She did GREAT! Better than me.
An awkward greeting looks something like this: a little too
much distance, hand placement must be corrected a time or two and when the one
person goes in for a cheek greeting and the second person doesn’t, the second
must overcompensate for this mistake by strongly jumping into the movement. My
most awkward greeting to date was just like this last scenario. My female
neighbor went in for the cheek/embrace but I did not. This caused me to belatedly
jumped into it and, overzealous me, we essentially kissed.
The Cultural Taboos
There were a few cultural norms I learned in training that I
forgot to share with my Mom before she came. Some of them are so irrelevant
that I didn’t bother; however, I should have warned her about smelling food.
When we ate at my colleagues’ house one night, she sat down and as any American
would do, she picked up the dish, smelled it and said, “ah delicious!” before
serving herself.
Imagine someone sitting at your dinner table and farting. Or
insulting your cooking. This is what my mom accidentally did. I read my two
colleagues for signs of anger or discomfort but they hid them well. And luckily
she didn’t smell the ubugare.
The Sexual Advances
I’ll periodically have a conversation with a random male and
my friendly, foreign nature is interpreted as an invitation. The conversation
immediately turns from greetings and small talk to “I need you” or “I want an
American girl but I can’t find one.” Though embarrassing, I do not let myself
blush or get too angry. The interesting thing I would note about these sexual
advances is that they only appear to me awkward FOR ME.
The Labeling
For an indirect culture, Rwandans sure like to label people.
Everyone is either good or bad, serious or not serious, a girl or a woman, etc.
They immediately label me a rich girl (never woman) and they laugh at any
objections I make. This tendency to label gets particularly awkward when I am
with other volunteers. Any Rwandan, a stranger or long time friend, will be
quick to say who is fatter, skinnier, smarter, more beautiful or who has a
richer mother. We’ve learned to take it with a grain of salt and laugh it off.
The Language Misunderstanding
This is an example of a language misunderstanding that
occurred between my neighbor and I on the telephone. It was harmless, as they
usually are. Italics indicate words spoken in Kinyarwanda.
Me (Penina): Hello
Odille! How are you?
Odille: When are you
coming?
Me: I will come
tomorrow in the afternoon.
Odille: [something in Kinyarwanda that I in no way
understand]
Me: I don’t know what you are saying.
Odille: Thank you. The
same to you!
Me: Ok, see you
tomorrow! Bye.
The Jealous Neighbor
I’m told by many Rwandans that villagers often poison people
out of jealously and anger. This is supposedly a common practice in my
district. Because of this fear of poisoning, it is customary to prepare, open
and/or sip food and beverages in front of a guest to show that they are not
poisoned. This is another thing I forgot to warn my Mom about.
Mama Devotha and her daughter came over for tea late one
evening. We poured both their teas but the daughter’s had some milk chunks
floating in it so my mom innocently took the cup to the kitchen to remove them.
I ran after her while our two guests sat frozen, certain that death or at least
painful stomach cramps were coming their way.
At this point, I started getting really flustered because I
knew they thought I was poisoning the daughter. So I carried the cup out myself
and before presenting it to her, I took a sip. My Mom was like, “what are you
doing? That’s hers.” So I had awkward coming at me from both sides but I didn’t
want to explain in their presence. It was so typically awkward. In the end,
Devotha did not drink her tea.
The Unusual Maladies of White People
Rwandans have many questions about my health and let’s just
say these conversations never make me feel comfortable. Sometimes, I will be
asked if women in America have periods and if the reason I stayed home from
school was because of “women’s problems.” Also, Rwandans do not have acne so
not only do they notice acne on a white person but they routinely comment AND
THEN PUT THEIR FINGERS ALL OVER YOUR PIMPLES TO TOUCH THEM. People also like to
grab your arms, hair, etc. When a man is grabbing my upper arm to comment on
how fat I am, he will usually remark on my rough skin and ask what I am sick
with.
It’s pretty fun.
I usually diffuse an awkward situation with a smile. I
frequently play the “dumb umuzungu” card. What else can you do? :-)
What a wonderful time my mom and I had on safari in Tanzania. (but who wouldn't?) We traveled with Wild Things Safaris and saw Tarangire National Park, Lake Manyara, Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater. The most beautiful place for me was Tarangire, which has one year-round river flowing through it where all the animals come together. Lake Manyara has tree-climbing lions, or climbing lion trees as our guide said, and the Serengeti is vast and wild.
We had a kind and knowledgable guide, Joseph, who was quick to correct our mislabelings and just as quick to laugh. He referenced the movies "Coming to America" and "Lion King" so he was alright in my book.
I particularly enjoyed seeing another East African country and found myself constantly comparing Tanzania to Rwanda. I found the culture very welcoming, peaceful and non-aggressive. They have STREET FOOD which meant I could buy grilled corn from street vendors and dance around like a child on Christmas. The village life looked very different from Rwanda as it was more tribal and the houses were more traditional. The country has around 121 tribes!! Tanzanians were very curious about my life in Rwanda and openly expressed prejudices they had about Rwandans.
This may not be interesting to you but it sure is to me: we ate so well on safari. Instead of rice, pasta, potatoes, repeat, we had meat, fish, spices and vegetables. The beef we had was the best I will ever have and it came from the most natural, free cattle you can imagine. Happy cows => happy Amanda.
Mom and I had wonderful talks and beautiful silences. One of our most spectacular nights was the night of the sunset above that was followed by dinner and white wine around a campfire. I have never seen the Milky Way so clear. I'd take "bushmen television" over real television any night.
Before my mom and I begin our once in a lifetime Tanzanian
safari, I thought I’d share all the fun memories we have made in East Africa.
Since the day my mom arrived, we’ve been playing a game of tallying who’s
winning: America or Africa. “One point for USA!” my mom will say. Props to her
because Africa sure seems to be in the lead.
America Wins Again:
To begin on a positive note, my mom has experienced and seen
beautiful things in Rwanda. She’s seen new grains, climbed hills, seen the
bases of volcanoes, the top of Kilimanjaro, drank lots of Fantas and tried
Rwandan corn. She was serenaded to by my students and colleagues on two
separate occasions. She has had outfits made and done so many Rwandan
greetings, you’d think she was umunyarwanda
kazi. She was successfully yelling at and scaring away the children that
stalk my house by the second day. “Oya Oya!” she would yell at the top of her
lungs, just like her daughter. She turned down some marriage proposals for me.
She has ridden not one broke down, sketchy matatu van but several. She has
dipped her toes in Lake Kivu and saw a caged Black Mamba snake. Mama Amanda has
killed spiders and used a squatty-potty for days at a time. She has also
mastered the whole Peace Corps routine:
-heat a small amount of water
-fill bucket with hot and cold water
-use cup to pour over body
-repeat as necessary
C’mon, how many moms do you know that could do that?
But Africa keeps winning:
Day one I got my mom on malaria meds but that didn’t stop me
from constantly suspecting she had it and therefore scaring the crap out of
her.* In English conversations, my mom commonly replies, “oh yeah”, only to
remember that in Kinyarwanda that means no. She had to eat ubugare, a dish made from cassava which smells and tastes like
“rotted, fetid horse flesh.” Mama Amanda experienced a smelly, crammed bus ride
during which approximately 22 people were crowed into a van that seats 18.
During this journey, Creepy McCreepster kept grabbing her hand and his partner
in crime, Leann’ Unclean Dean kept invading her personal space more and more.
On a later bus ride, a squealing puppy nipped at her feet and peed on the floor
below her seat. She became violently ill one night in Kigali and had resulting
aches and pains for 24 hours. She took so much pepto bismol that her tongue
became black. Our first night in
Tanzania I removed an intact sac of chigger eggs from her foot.* Afterwards,
she went at her mosquito bites with a Swiss army knife out of fear that they
were also parasites.* On this same day, we were robbed on the bus (ok, just a
dollar) and I burned my finger to the point that it’s covered in huge blisters.
She’s suffering from mosquito, spider and flea bites while I have none.
I would say that in this epic battle of wits and nerve, it
is neither America or Africa that is winning: it is my Mom. We have had a great
time and she’s been incredibly supportive when my spirits were at their lowest.We’ve spent a few days in Kigali, we
did the whole Peace Corps Rwanda thing in my village, we stayed with Tressa for
a night and spent my birthday week in Gisenyi on Lake Kivu. She has been able
to meet my exceptional Peace Corps buddies, most of my colleagues, Rwandan
women who have been like family to me and lots of beautiful children.
Most important to me is that I have someone to share the day
to day with and that is my mother. I can still feel crazy, frustrated and angry
while she is heroically putting up with the terrors of a less developed country
but at least we are together!
I want to familiarize you with all the transportation options we have in the land of 1000 hills. It has been a pleasure getting to know most of them. First of all, let me tell you that Rwanda has 4 classes of roads:
Class I: nice, paved roads. Like “damn, are we in a developing country?” nice. Class II: paved but with potholes the size of Lake Victoria. A lot of these roads are in the south so at least every winding, bumpy journey promises a monkey spotting or two. Class III: Nice dirt road. This is what I have at and around my site and is great except during the dry season. Class IV: Say a prayer if it’s the dry season and you’re on this type of dirt road. Don’t even bother if it’s the rainy season, right Julie Ann? These roads are treacherous, bumpy and often steep. I’d rather walk.
So on these four types of roads, you have several transportation options. 1. The white bus: these are nice, maybe 30 passenger buses that are common in Kigali and in between large towns. This is always your first choice. They only sit one person to each seat. This is a win-win-win situation for you Office lovers. 2. The taxi bus or matatu: this is the most common form of transportation in Rwanda. They are small buses with sliding doors. The “seat” 19 but usually carry around 22. I like to count the number of people each time. These buses are extra special because they have unique messages painted on them supporting one team, singer or religion. Our favorites? Free T.I., Jesus is Caming, Jesus Cames, Thanks God, Why Clife, Michael Scofield and May God Befront Us. If I can incorporate math into this blog, I would say you have a 20% chance of riding a matatu with a screaming child. You have a 2% chance of every bag of potatoes being searched for grenades. You have a 10% chance of riding one with lots of smelly fish. I have a 50% chance of being seated in the front with the driver. And finally, a 5% chance of getting your phone stolen. Though I love matatus, I am terrified of dying in a fiery explosion while trapped inside a small metal cage with 21 other people. That’s why I pull the muzungu card and hop in the front seat. At least that way I can see what’s coming. It’s standard to text other volunteers and tell them how awful your matatu ride is. The other day, I had the matatu ride from hell during which I was in a matatu for 2.5 hours (for a 1 hour trip) with 16 people and:
a. 10 purses
b. a dozen buckets
c. approximately 20 boxes of food
d. tin roofing
e. sugar cane
f. lots of toilet paper
g. about 20 rubber boots
h. a child
i. about 50 lbs of peanuts
Then we got a flat tire.
3. The green bus of death (see above): most of our towns are lucky enough to have their own Onatracom bus from Japan. It is much easier for me to remember it as the green bus of death. I fear you could tip one of these buses over like an oversized-green domino and down the steep mountain it would go. These huge buses probably roamed the earth with Gigantasaurus and T-rex: they are that old and that big. One time I was riding one of these with probably 100 other people. My body was touching 7 people at one time and the smiling man above me was literally dripping sweat onto me. During this journey, I attempted to have an out of body experience as to escape to my “special place”. Still, the green bus of death is a place of class and chivalry. Men will fight to get me on the bus and get me a nice seat. I appreciate that. It’s also really cheap and the expressions on people’s faces when they see a white person on board are priceless. 4. The taxi car or imodoka: You can often catch a sketchy ride in one of these sketchy cars for a decent price. It’s like low ridin’ with Snoop in one of those cars with hydraulic lifts (I’m not sure what they’re called) because it is so bouncy. This is a generally pretty fast method of transportation. 5. The moto: Motorcycles are frowned upon by Peace Corps because they have caused many deaths and injuries. (Un)fortunately, my site is mainly accessible by moto so I ride motos when the green bus of death or a matatu are not available but I have to get to Kigali for a meeting, the doctor, etc. A moto, though prohibited for PCVs, is the best way to see this country. I would recommend it to all non PCVs. So before you get on a moto, make sure you have your own helmet. My Peace Corps approved helmet is aerodynamic, flashy and a hot item to steal because, believe me, people have tried. Some moto rides cause intense abdominal workouts, some drivers talk on their cellphones, some insist on talking to you. It really depends. 6. The bicycle taxi: Rwanda, despite its hills, has an admirable biking culture. These men groom and treasure their bikes. Most are pretty tricked-out with lights, reflectors, pegs and colored tape. Bikes can be used to transport people (ladies ride side-saddle on the back) or to transport HUNDREDS of pounds of produce. I am not exaggerating. When one of these bikes tips over, the poor rider has to summon help from bystanders to right the heavy bicycle. I have only seen two women riding bicycles but I am told most know how to ride them. 7. All other vehicles are reserved for government officials, foreigners, schools and the rich. It is difficult to catch a ride in one of these unless your last name is Figure Skating.* 8. The last option is to go by foot. This is pleasant and standard for short distances. Rwandans are still amazed to see me on foot. Riding a car or moto is a status symbol and they expect someone like me to never walk anywhere. In Kigali, the women wear flashy heels because they do not walk anywhere.
